Madonna in Porthcawl

You'd never wonder:
or maybe you would.
Maybe you would look twice
if you knew her drug of choice.
Maybe you'd walk straight past
on your own saltwater and scarred weather pilgrimage.
Yes, maybe you'd wonder.
Maybe you would.

Because here she comes again,
strung out on the promenade;
a grandmother with limestone hair,
string-bag of catfood and sweet-
potato breasts aswing
beneath her stole.

She will not mow the lawn.
It turns into astrakhan.
Spiderwebs lean like unicycles
...